I am also caught up in the living. And figuring out. And feeling a little lost. Which makes words hard to come by sometimes. After a recent trip to the country to see traditional painted houses- a worthy blog post to follow perhaps- I returned home to the dusty, congested city feeling out of sorts and overly fatigued. The fatigue is not new and I am currently attributing it to some tropical mystery disease that I probably need to seek professional assistance on. (My propensity towards self diagnosis and treatment is well documented in this blog, so I will spare you the incredibly easy pharmacy transactions which allow me to try all sorts of remedies without actually consulting a professional. I've come to think of myself as a healer in my own right....to an extent.)
In any case, with observations from a friend, I began feeling my home needed a little spiritual cleansing. I haven't found a sage hook up yet- or begun my investigation into a Malian guide who might know exactly what to do- so I turned to general aromatherapy as a first step.
Mali, like much of West Africa, is filled with beautiful odors and a long tradition of using incense of one variety or another for all kinds of ailments and preventions. My wonderful neighbor gifted me this beautiful burning pot after we bought some ...? I don't even know what to call the incense that is sold here. It is surely natural from plants and barks and other organic matter but it has a sticky, smooshed together quality that I can't really describe. Hash is the closest I can come. I don't know how it is made. (I know, I really need to step up my game. I have forgone all curiosity and have moved into naive acceptance. It's what they do here, so me too.)
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| Much more than I imagined...a beautiful gift |
For her. For me, starting the charcoal was an hour long affair. I enlisted the help of my painting partner, Drissa, a Malian who I assumed had experience with the tea-making process. The tea ritual involves charcoal burned in a little metal cook stove that is generally swung back forth which allows air to fan the coals and get them burning. Driving through the city at tea time, you can see any number of tea swingers- young children, to older boys or men, involved in grand sweeping gestures with their metal pots. My new incense vase was definitely not swingable.
Drissa, ever a willing friend, went off to buy some charcoal and returned ready to whip this thing together. An hour later, we were still ripping bits of paper, trying to start a miniature campfire on my front porch. I employed all my long forgotten campfire skills to no avail. I laughed at his attempts and wondered aloud if he really knew how to make tea (something close to an insult here in Mali, surely.) I had images of marshmallows and long sticks foolishly filling my mind, a mismatched moment of culture clash.
Mbalia got in on the effort, using all her 3 1/2 year old strength to squeeze the trigger on the lighter and throw random bits of paper into the well. We blew, we fanned, we juggled the vase and rearranged the charcoal. I couldn't imagine having to invest this much time and effort for sensory relief, or even for a cup of tea (although, admittedly, that is a long, drawn out social affair - they've got a rhythm down that we didn't quite achieve.)
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| the blow-on-the-top method |
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| Mbalia adding bits of paper and incense |
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| Vigorous fanning |
Finally we declared success and dropped in some incense, our hard efforts rewarded by soothing smoke emanating from the top. It was a far cry from the thuribles of Catholic mass, that I have fond sensory memories of, and it didn't last nearly as long as he'd predicted.
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| Charcoal- not burning. Incense- unscathed |
